


i haven't helped you to hear it

by sparklings



Category: Red White & Royal Blue - Casey McQuiston
Genre: 5+1 Things, Author Has No Work Ethics, Birthdays, Canon Compliant, Developing Relationship, Fluff, Introspection, Late night feels, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Mentions of Sex, Missing Scene, Phone Calls, Pillow Talk, alexander gabriel claremont-diaz being an idiot, but an idiot in love, i mean at this point is just me going 'oh this totally happened in chapter 7!!!!!', kind of, more or less, nothing explicit though i guess, there's so much pillow talk it's embarassing, this is so self indulgent and i'm not sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2020-10-27 01:19:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20751959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparklings/pseuds/sparklings
Summary: "It's become a thing: baby. He knows it's become a thing. He's slipped up and accidentally said it a few times, and each time, Henry positively melts"five times Alex slipped up and accidentally called Henry "baby" (+ one time he definitely meant to do this)





	1. March 8th, 2020. Paris.

**Author's Note:**

> the title is from ben platt's "in case you don't live forever"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “‘Mning, baby,” Alex mumbles, and Henry’s eyes grow wide, serious, guarded, all blurriness gone in an instant. Alex frowns in besument for a split second before his mind catches up with mouth, before the surprise on Henry’s face reminds him of the context of this tiny slice of his life.
> 
> Well, shit.

When Alex opens his eyes, the morning sun is beaming through the white curtains, making his hotel room gloom in golden light. He watches from under half-shut eyelids as the drops of dust float lazily through the air, constant, slow movement absorbing his newly restored consciousness. The hour is unknown, cannot be early though, as the contours of the room are too distinct to be covered in early March’s morning fog. 

He blurrily remembers his flight takes off at 6.15 p.m. No need to worry about the hours, then - it can’t be evening. 

Alex stretches lazily and shifts to lay on his back, moving his eyes to the richly ornamented ceiling. He smiles at the familiarity of it. Not more than ten hours ago, or so he thinks, he’s been staring at it while being gently taken apart by a pair of soft, elegant mouth. The shadow of the touch still lingers on the skin on his chest, his neck, his tights, his hands, the aftertaste still on his lips. Alex sinks deeper into the pillows at the memory, revels in it. 

Last night was, well. Last night was everything Alex would expect from every pastel-coloured fairytale prince, if fairytale princes were ever allowed to have dating and sexual habits. From the smile Henry gave him when they met by his favourite creperie in a tiny alley south of what’s left of the Notre Dame Cathedral, to the way he held Alex’s hand in his while he conversed with the elevator operator in perfect French, to the touch of his lips on Alex’s collarbone, and his inner tight, and the back of his hand, all of this felt so ridiculously picture perfect, so, and he hates himself a little for using that like it’s a good thing, so _ royal _, that Alex felt as if he was nothing but a liter of red wine and a cloud of gold glitter.

It’s not a big thing, this little fling they have, but the back of Alex’s head whispers to him that he will cherish this foggy memory forever, come what may.

His head feels a little heavy, the way heads do when they’re jet-lagged and having considerable amounts of alcohol evaporated from them, and he lets his eyes fall shut again. He lets himself stay like this - white duvet covering him waist-down, soft mattress under his back, mental pictures from last night flashing between his eyes without any order or narrative sense, simply reminding him of how cheesily _ happy _ he was. It’s just it, and the smell of fresh laundry and expensive collogne, and the sound of his breath, and the rustle of the sheets next to him, and-

Hold up.

Alex frowns and half-opens his eyes again, and they follow the unexpected sound of some presence next to him, confused, to meet a pair of other, bright blue, looking just as sleepy as his own feel. 

Henry is there, in Alex’s bed. Of course he is. Henry, his skin gleaming softly in gentle morning light, his hair, _oh ever so soft_ hair, spread behind his head like a halo in the pillow. Henry, an absent smile playing on his pink, plush lips. Henry, who beamed over the table in the creperie last night to breathe a soft “I think we need to get going” into Alex’s ear, who asked him “What do you need me to do?” when he climbed over him in this exact bed, who kissed his _ belly button _after he was done with him. Henry, who is just a steady, soft beam of light with a pair of impossibly blue eyes, covered with long lashes, watching Alex, gleaming with intensity. 

Oh, what a view he is. 

Alex was already smiling before, but now he’s straight up grinning like an idiot when he shifts to his side to mirror the way Henry is laying next to him.

“‘Mning, baby,” Alex mumbles, and Henry’s eyes grow wide, serious, guarded, all blurriness gone in an instant. Alex frowns in besument for a split second before his mind catches up with mouth, before the surprise on Henry’s face reminds him of the context of this tiny slice of his life.

Well, shit.

Suddenly he’s wide awake, and perfectly aware of what he just did. He’s always been a fucking moron, blurting words out as if they had no meaning, never double-checking himself before irreversibly polluting the air with yet another faux pas, but _ this _ ? This is bigger than snapping in classes or during official proceedings, this is _ Henry _ , who’s been running circles around him for weeks, for _ months _, before allowing himself to open up, and now he’s scared away again. It’s their carefully crafted no-strings-attached agreement that became so dear to Alex.

Henry looks mollified. His eyes never leave Alex, his stare darkened with emotion. Alex can’t really hear Henry’s heartbeat, at least he doesn’t think he can, but he’s fairly sure it’s speeding up. _ Nice work, crackhead _ , he tells himself. _ You made Prince Charming fear for his life. _He distantly wonders if that means he’s a classical villain now.

What the fuck was that, even? Alex is certain that modern English language has quite a few terms to address your former-sworn-enemy-turned-international-friend-with-benefits, but he finds it absolutely obvious that _ baby _doesn't make the list. 

(He would be lying if he said it felt wrong, though.)

(Which, if he was to think about it, makes it all even worse.)

Akex’s mind is spinning, desperately searching for a way out, for something to say, something smooth enough to pretend this calamity didn’t just escape his throat. There’s nothing, so he goes for a sincere groan, pulls a hand over his face. “Fuck, man. I’m sorry.”

He glances between his fingers to find Henry watching him, still alert, but now also slightly amused, a hint of smile playing on his lips, as he wets them quickly with his tongue.”

“What do you mean, you’re sorry?”

Alex tries not to shiver over the fact that he just heard Henry’s morning voice for the first time, over its hoarseness and the absolute lack of guard around it, over how vulnerable, and soft, and open Henry is now, and fails. Even the petrifying context can’t distract him from the warmth that ignites somewhere inside him at the sound. 

“Don’t,” Alex whines, pushing his momentary meltdown away to get back to damage control.

“Don’t what?” 

“Come on, don’t make me relive that.”

"Relive what?"

"What I just did."

“I have no idea what you mean.” Henry is grinning now, ready to laugh, and Alex feels that, if this is how Henry sees their situation now, he might find the whole thing humorous, too.

“That was fucking weird,” he chuckles.

“It was.”

  
They’re both giggling now, laughing the brief awkwardness away. Alex realises he’s been holding his breath, now that he’s exhaling with his whole chest, huge weight he had no idea about falling from his chest. 

“_ Baby _ , wasn’t it?” Henry moves closer to him, braces himself on an elbow. His face hovers over Alex’s, fingers caressing his collarbone. “Should I call you a _ pumpkin _ now?”

“Shut up,” Alex grunts, suddenly breathless, and Henry’s lips find his neck.

“_ Darling _, maybe?”

“I hate y-you,” Alex’s voice shakes a little, just enough to undermine his point, when Henry nibs at his jaw lightly.

“_ Honeybun _?”

“Who would ever actually-” Alex laughs and slips his hands into Henry’s hair, and brings his lips to his own, and tastes his morning breath, which is just a tiny bit nasty. Henry loses his balance and falls on top of him, covering Alex with his weight, and slips a leg between Alex’s tights, one hand lazily travelling back and forth on his chest. _ It’s fine, _Alex thinks, more relieved than he expected himself to be, and solely promises himself to watch his fucking mouth in the future, and forget the b-word ever existed.

Henry pulls away for a minute and smiles, and, so close that Alex can feels his breath on his lips, whispers “Good morning to you, too.”


	2. March 12th, 2020. Washington.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So. Have a good evening.” 
> 
> “You, too,” Alex says, and then he realises he’s slacking, that he doesn’t really want to the call to end. So, he throws in a quick “Happy birthday, baby,” and disconnects.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi guys i'm back!! this one's even more fluffy than the previous one becuase of /the occasion/ and it was so fun and i might have or might have not written it in one sitting 
> 
> i'm going to update the tags as i add more chapters so please take your time to reread them, if there is ever a need for trigger warnings they're going to be there!

“How does it feel to be the age at which Stevie Wonder wrote _ Higher Ground _?”

Alex hears Henry chuckle softly at the other side of the call and almost walks into an Eleanor Roosevelt’s vase.

“Was he really twenty three then?” Henry wonders right to his ear, as Alex is pacing through the White House halls. “Do you ever muse about how you’re doing pretty decent for your age only to learn you could have been a famous anti-imperialist at this point in life?”

“Barely ever. But I’m twenty two and living with my mum so I don’t dare counting myself as _ doing pretty decent _.” Suddenly Alex regrets he didn’t make it a FaceTime call, certain he missed an impressive eye roll. “Seriously, though.” He locks the door to his room behind him. “How was your day?”

“Fairly crappy, to be honest,” Henry admits, and Alex frowns. “_ Higher Ground _ aside, twenty three is also the _ You’ve overstayed your gap year _ age and _ When are you going to enlist? _age. And Pez is dragging me to some fancy new pub in Soho, which is almost as tragic.”

Alex climbed into his bed, making himself comfortable for what he hopes to be a long conversation. His mind jumps back to New Year’s Eve party as he’s trying to picture Henry moving carefully in the neon light. The thought is making his skin tingle. “That bit’s good to hear. He’s going to force you to have fun.”

“I shouldn’t be forced to have _ fun _ ,” Henry complains. “It’s my birthday. If I want to spend it with David and a pack of Jaffa Cakes, rereading _ Emma _and being miserable, I should be allowed.”

There is something about this nerdy, introverted side of Henry that never fails to make Alex’s stomach tangle, a mix of growing fondness and realisation that he felt threatened by the guy who _ rereads _classical romances. But now, all he can focus on is the part where Henry mentions his birthday misery.

“ Tell me more,” Alex says, gentle, concerned. 

“Well, this thing is called _ Blue Velvet _ ,” Henry tries to dodge. “Which is already pretty terrifying, since- wait. Have you watched _ Blue Velvet _? I’d hate to-”

“Come on, man, this is not what I meant.”

“I know,” Henry admits. “It’s nothing, though, truly. Nothing out of ordinary, at least.”

Alex can feel resistance building inside of him, because Henry can’t just do things like this - tell Alex his birthday is crappy, hint that living with the royal family is even more of a nightmare than Alex knew by now, and then just act as if he didn’t. He can’t just throw Alex into this weird tangle of worry about the unspoken, make him feel almost as if he _ cared _. He’s already blurting his objection but Henry cuts him off.“Please don’t make me talk about it. It’s my birthday.”

“Right,” Alex agrees, discontented, and, maybe, apparently, Henry can just do things like this today. “You’re right, I’m sorry. Tell me about the club, then.”

So he does. Alex listens about the differences between a club and a _ pub _ , about London nightlife, about creepy alleys in Soho, and about underground clubs where you need to pay in tens of pounds just to get in and then pay in hundreds of pounds to get drunk. Then Henry’s tongue seems to untangle, and there’s a part about Pez’s friends who are just about as flamboyant as he is, and blue neons, and Henry’s lack of appreciation for David Lynch, and his absolute remorse for people who name their nightclubs after _ one hundred twenty minutes of screaming and perpetual abuse _, and disbelief for the concept that maybe, just maybe, the club’s name literally stands for fancy material. Alex has always been more of a talker than a listener himself, unable to sit through other people’s monologues, especially if they concerned people he didn’t know and places he couldn’t even imagine. But now, he’s all in, attentive, clinging to every word. Henry’s voice goes tender as he circles back to talk about how Pez restored him out of his formal birthday dinner almost giving Phillip a heart attack, and Alex might be a little bit obsessed with this, with how Henry’s letting him into his life. It’s just a crack in the wall, but it’s enough to get a sheepish smile on his face.

“Man, I wish I could be there,” Alex laughs at the description of bright silver confetti Pez covered half of Henry's Kensington apartment with, and realises that he really means it. He does wish he could be in the royal palace today. He’s never going to tell anyone about it.

There’s a quiet sight at the other end of the call. “So do I.”

A short pause follows, and Alex suspects none of them really know what to say to that. Their confessions linger in the air, gaining seriousness with every moment, so he reaches for something to say.

“I’d make you wear my birthday gift,” he blurts, his eyes drafting towards the piece of cloth spread on his desk chair.

Henry huffs a laugh. “Please do not tell me you’ve gotten kinky since I last saw you.”

“I haven’t _ gotten _anything, Your Highness,” he teases. “There’s more to me than I show.”

“Not that I’d call you a liar, but that’s a tad hard to imagine,” Henry says, not falling for his seduction scheme.

“Oh, if I was there, _ you’d imagine _.”

Alex hears a weird sound, half-laughter, half-snort, and he’s idiotically happy knowing he made Henry smile.

“Have you really got me a sex shop gift you seriously expect me to get into?”

“You’re right, that’s foolish. Then, it’s for me to _ get into _ ,” the thought of Henry really believing him cracks Alex up a little. “and for you to _ enjoy _.”

A sharp inhale, the sound of movement which convinces Alex that Henry looked around nervously, and then the answer, hurried, tuned down: “Alex, I do appreciate it, I’m sure you meant your best but if you bring any licentious accessory within Kensington Palace-”

“Relax, oh my God,” Alex laughs, kind of annoyed that he couldn’t keep the banter for longer. “Brits are so funny when they’re flustered.”

“I’m not _ flustered _-”

“I wouldn’t do that to you, come on,” Alex bites on his thumb at the thought, though. “No matter how tempting it sounds.”

Henry chuckles, relaxing. “Maybe one day. And on _ my _ call.”

“Holy fuck-”

“I said _ maybe _. Now, really. Have you gotten me a gift?”

“Sure I did,” Alex tries to ignore the speed his heart rate jumps onto at the thought of Henry actually _ allowing him _to experiment, at how much more he can turn out to be, and he keeps his hand out of his pants. “And yes, it is a piece of clothing. Nothing kinky though. I mean, I guess it might be. Depends on what you’re into, but that was not the intent.”

“Alright.” Henry’s voice is this luxuriously soft again. “That’s surprisingly sweet of you.”

“Nothing surprising about me being sweet.”

“That’s true,” Henry says, as if automatically, and Alex's stomach does its weird thing again. “Thank you.”

Alex’s gift is a tie, printed with an offensively disgusting collage of photos of David Bowie’s face. Thinking of something good enough for a literal prince living in a literal palace was so fucking tough, especially given the weary nature of their relationship. What was he supposed to get Henry? Another piece of jewelry? A book, shall London Royal Libraries not have enough of those? A _Star Wars_ trilogy on Blu-Ray? He panicked, googled “david bowie gifts” ,and found this absolute monstrosity. It’s hideous. He knows Henry will love it. 

“You’ll thank me once you see it.”

“No, I mean, er, you know.” Henry stummers, then clears his throat. “For calling.”

“Of course,” Alex’s brows furrow. Of course he called, it’s Henry's birthday. He’s been preparing for it for a week. He even- “Birthday wishes!” Alex jumps on the bed, reminding himself of why he’s calling, and rushes off to his desk. “Oh my god I still haven’t said _ happy birthday _, have I?”

“It doesn’t matter-”

“Of course it _ matters _. Happy birthday, Henry. Uhh, I. Kind of, made a list of things I wanted to wish you.”

“Oh,” Henry says, and Alex is busy now, but not too busy to flinch at Henry’s stupid Buckingham accent.

“But I think I lost it.”

“Ah.”

“I mean, I’m literally looking for it now,” Alex says, and he is. He’s throwing the third drawer out of his desk, scanning through his college notes, and political binders, and old to-do lists, and calendars. “It should be-” He braces his phones between his shoulder and his ear to engage both of his hand in the search. “You know, I have _ so many _papers, I should probably do something about it.”

“Alex, you don’t have to-”

“I _ do _have to,” He says, not certain why exactly, and quickly adds. “How many people get to wish things to a prince? Don’t take it away from me.”

“Alright, now that it is about you, I’m convinced.”

“Oh, it _ totally _is,” Alex smiles softly, and gives up. “Well. I think I’m going to have to improvise.”

“Alex-”

“Henry,” oddly, there’s a gulp in Alex throat. He considers laying back on the bed, or placing himself in the desk chair, but can’t seem to do either. “I know it’s too late to wish you not being a product of centuries of inbreeding.”

“Oh my God.”

Alex is pacing through his room like a third grader revising his first presentation, confused by how nervous he is all of sudden.

“But really, if inbreeding produces ones like you, how bad can it be, really,”

Henry huffs. “I get what you’re saying, but-”

“Good. Don’t ruin it.” Alex runs a hand through his hair. His heart is racing. What the fuck is happening. “Anyway. I’m glad it produced you. And I wish you all best, you know. Lots of Jaffa Cakes, and beagles, and international appearances that let you meet me, and, uh. God, I wish I had a list, it was much better.”

“I’m sure you remember something from it,” Henry says, and, damn, his voice when he says that. It’s quiet, a low hum into Alex’s ear, soft, and amused, and encouraging, and it does nothing to loosen the tangle in Alex’s stomach. 

“I do, I think.” Alex takes a deep breath and forces himself to sit down on the bed. “I wanted to wish you that someone took the copyrights for _ Harry Potter _ from Joanne. That _ Return of the Jedi _ got more appreciation, even though it doesn’t deserve it, but I know you’d be happy if it did. Oh, there was a joke about Hufflepuff winning the House Cup-”

“I’m not a Hufflepuff.”

“Sure you’re not,” Alex lays down on his back, relaxes on the pillows. “And I wished you that Bake Off never ends. And that you’ll be lucky enough to be abroad when all the crown territories unite and march on Kensington with guillotines, as they should.” Henry lets out a full-on laugh, and Alex might have melted a little bit at that, huge grin back on his face. “And that England gets even more rainy, cause you told me once that you love rain, for some reason which I can’t really imagine.” Well, this one was definitely not on his list. But he keeps going. “And that Pez throws so much glitter in your hair you’ll never get it out, cause it looks good on you, and that’d be hilarious. And that you only meet people like him from now on.” Alex has no idea what he’s doing. “Oh, and, that this is the year that you get to do things your way, you know. That you take the narrative.”

Alex could probably keep going for ages, but he’s slightly afraid of where he’s heading. A long pause follows. 

“And, you know,” he attempts, going for a casual tone. “All the best. I mean it. This year better be fucking awesome for you, or I’ll kick its ass.”

“Thank you.” Alex can swear he _ hears _Henry’s face. He knows this tone, more of a hum than an articulated sound. He knows Henry’s facial muscles are relaxed, he knows the way Henry’s smiling, lightheaded, and happy, and satisfied, the way he does after a remarkably good kiss, or when he snuggles into Alex’s arm after sex. Inability to see it is physically painful. “I, er. I really don’t know what to say now.”

Alex doesn’t know either. He’s laying in his bed, staring at the ceiling, nothing in the world but Henry’s voice in his ear. He’s, oh _God_. He’s absolutely in awe of how he can match Henry's ticks with the sound of his voice, how much he knows about him, how wrong he was about him. It has to be just past eleven in London, and it’s getting dark in D.C. already, long shadows are painted throughout his room, making him feel like he should say _something _and, truly, he has no idea what that could be. but he’s certain he would deeply regret saying that.

Before he can figure, there is a loud noise coming from the other side of the line, and the moment is gone. Alex gasps, confused, relieved, disappointed. 

“Alex, I am _ so _unspeakably sorry,” Henry shouts over the noise. “But Pez is threatening to drown me in Thames if I don’t get off the phone and join him.”

“Sure!” Alex says, a little too fast and a little too enthusiastic, and not sincere enough. “I mean, it’s obvious you’re busy.”

  
  
“I’m never too busy for you,” Henry clearly means it to be a joke, a wink of sorts, and he needs to scream it over what now seems to be an unmeasured mix of singing voices, but it still manages to make something light up inside of Alex’s chest. “That is, er, it’s not really being busy if it’s just, uh,” Henry stammers, bringing a grin back to Alex’s face. “You know what I mean.”

“I do.” Alex laughs. "Go have fun, birthday boy.”

“Well, hopefully,” Henry says, and he does sound hopeful. “Thank you, again. For calling, and the wishes, and the gift, in advance. Looking forward to it.’

“Me, too,” Alex says, and he truly is. “And, sure.”

“So. Have a good evening.”

“You, too,” Alex says, and then he realises he’s slacking, that he doesn’t really want to the call to end. So, he throws in a quick “Happy birthday, baby,” and disconnects.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> honestly i don't even know if it's good it's just been following me for the entire day and it's 2 am okay
> 
> please keep being nice to me i cry easily


	3. March 28th, 2020. New York City.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What also mattered was how his hold on Alex’s hips tightened and how he pulled Alex closer once a certain b-word escaped his mouth. The change in Henry’s momentum after he’s called baby is blatant - he momentarily grows softer, fonder, his breath hitches. Alex doesn’t allow himself to think about what it could possibly mean on a daily basis. Something twitches at 3am, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you didn't really think alex would go through any of their birthdays without going all soft did you

Alex watches Henry. It’s 3.38am, pitch dark, and the curtains are obviously down, but he’s been lying awake for solid two hours now, so his eyes adjusted. He tried everything: went through his schedule for the next week, revised what little he could remember for the next Economics lecture, went through the lyrics of his favourite childhood songs,  _ counted sheep _ , got bored and then counted sheep again, but in Spanish, and he still can’t fall asleep. Henry has drifted off with his face turned to the other side of the room, but he only just growled and stretched, and changed sides so that his face is right next to Alex’s, and Alex really has nothing better to do now, right? So, he watches Henry’s face.

It would kill him to admit it, but he wants to stare at Henry’s face a lot. Now, after they haven’t seen each other since France, it seems like wanting to stare at Henry’s face is his default setting, his main emotional state. Sometimes he’s happy, other times he’s angry, but most of the time, he wishes he were looking at a certain English prince.

He doesn’t get to do this half as often as he’d like to, for two very understandable reasons. One, there is this transatlantis distance between them, which makes staring hard. There’s FaceTime, of course, but they didn’t quite get there yet - phone calls are fine, and getting longer, but video calls seem a bit too intimate. Then, there are photos, and he does stare at them, but it’s so obviously not the same. Two, even when they’re together, it feels rude to stare. Maybe  _ rude _ isn’t quite the word - it feels inappropriate. Like crossing the line they agreed they won’t be crossing. 

But now, Henry’s sound asleep, and Alex has his reasons to belief that all lines get blurry past 3am. And, well, Henry is beautiful.

Alex recalls his thirteen years old self used to study this face in magazines, desperate to find a single flaw, and failing. He managed to half-convince himself that it was all airbrushing and photoshop, but he always knew that it was not. That is, it probably was, as he knows the tabloids all too well to believe they wouldn’t polish the royal faces before showing them to the public, but in this particular case, there wasn’t really much to correct. 

Henry has one of these infuriatingly symmetrical faces that look like they were cut in marble. His bone structure alone, strong jaw, high cheekbones, Grecian nose, sharp browarch, all so distinct even in the darkness, would be enough to convince Alex of the existence of some higher power, some divine creator. His eyelashes are long and thick, his hair, even after being tugged at and ruffled, silky and smooth. His facial muscles are relaxed now, making him look so incredibly at peace, the way he never looks when he’s awake. His mouth are slightly parted, and Alex’s gaze roams over the flawless skin, down to Henry’s pouty lips. He wants to touch them so badly, to follow their edges with his finger, but he’s way too terrified of what would happen if he woke Henry up like that to even think of this as a possibility.

Alex spent years wondering if people find Henry handsome, if they adore the young prince more than their American diamond in the rough. Now, he hopes every single person who’s ever laid their eyes on Henry considers him fucking breathtaking. 

Of course, at some point in life, he himself used to call Henry _generic_, or _bland_, or _devoid of personality_, and now that they’re sharing a bed, and Henry is so open and vulnerable, he feels a wave of guilt pour over him every time he recalls it. Henry’s definitely not devoid of personality, but thoughtful, and smart, and courageous, and a little bit of a primadonna. He’s not _bland_, either - actually, he might be one of the most amusing people Alex has ever met. Most definitely, tough, he’s not _generic_ \- he’s complex, he’s extraordinary, he’s one of a kind, he’s-

The only thing that keeps Alex from screaming now is the fact that he would wake Henry up, and the realisation of that only increases his desire to scream. 

It’s disastrous. He remembers way too clearly that this was never supposed to be, well, this.  _ What we were, but with blowjobs _ , he told Henry.  _ No booty calls _ , he told Henry before that.  _ I’d rather not be the little spoon _ , he told Henry months ago, and now he watches his bare arm clutching the duvet tightly, and wonders how would it feel to fall asleep held like this, pressed up against this broad chest, while he’s musing about how incredible the boy in his bed is.

At twenty two, Alex Claremont-Diaz isn’t any less of an idiot than he was at twenty one.

Yet, Alex has been an  _ oblivious  _ idiot for a vast part of his life, and now he’s starting to get it. He’s slowly starting to understand the way Henry looks at him when he thinks Alex isn’t watching, the resistance to hang up after each call, the soft smile he’s never seen aimed at anyone else. Analysing this is probably the most self-destructive thing Alex could do to himself, so he doesn’t, but, half-consciously, involuntarily, he knows what’s happening: he’s not the only idiot in this bed. He’s thrilled. He’s terrified. 

It’s not even as if he thought about it a lot, because he really does not. Most of the time, he’s way too busy experiencing. When Alex followed to the hotel room tonight and found Henry waiting for him with three bottles of champagne and a tower of twenty two birthday cupcake, one small candle in each of them, he didn’t bother thinking. Henry straddled him, undressed him slowly, and covered him in buttercream, and cons of developing certain feelings for members of royal families who happen to be of the same gender were the last thing on his mind. What mattered was the way in which Henry insisted to be the one in charge tonight, how he made Alex let him take control, how much of his time he took to take care of the needs Alex was not even aware he had. How gentle and how generous he was.

What also mattered was how his hold on Alex’s hips tightened and how he pulled Alex closer once a certain b-word escaped his mouth. The change in Henry’s momentum after he’s called  _ baby _ is blatant - he momentarily grows softer, fonder, his breath hitches. Alex doesn’t allow himself to think about what it could possibly mean on a daily basis. Something twitches at 3am, though.

Calling Henry  _ baby  _ feels different than calling him  _ Your Highness _ , or  _ sunshine _ , or  _ sweetheart.  _ It’s the only word he’s ever called Henry which has never been used ironically or in mockery. It’s not something he might as well call his seven year old cousin by, nor an archaic reminder of centuries of colonialism. It’s intimate, it’s personal, and it should have never been said in the first place - not in their dynamic, at least. It’s a reminder of what they can’t be, a promise Alex simply can’t keep, no matter how eager he’s growing to do so. But it  _ does  _ feel right, and Alex knows it does feel right for Henry, too.

Way past 3am, in bed in a fancy New York City hotel, twenty two years old Alexander Claremont-Diaz is so overwhelmed and so helpless to do anything about it, he feels like he might start crying any second. 

  
He doesn't really get much sleep that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sO i wanted to dive into some character study and i hope i kinda managed but honestly, this one might be my least favourite of the three? i guess i'm not the best at writing angst-ish stuff? anyway please do tell me how you like it and stay tuned, i have like seven different ideas and only three chapters left but once i decide what i'm actually writing i'm on it


	4. April 17th, 2020. Chicago.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Come on, that’s not fair,” he says, certain the idiotic smile on his face is audible on the other end. “I’m at work.”
> 
> “Ahh yes,” Henry answer, same over-the-top tone, dragging the vowels. “With lots of powerful American women, was it?”
> 
> “Aww, baby, is it jealousy I’m hearing?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello after 5 months or so <33 also this one's like twice as long as the usual because i have no consistency whatsoever <33

**HRH Prince Dickhead ****💩:** What sort of event is it, again?

Alex reads the message on his notification screen, but is forced to put his phone back in his pocket when two gentlemen in expensive suits approach him out of nowhere. One is a representative of a catering firm from Los Angeles, the other one works as a PR manager for some advertisement company. Both of them are _ terribly enthusiastic _about his mother’s presidency, much too well-mannered to let him go easily, so he spends quite a handful of minutes chatting about vegan options added to the menu this year, and the social media campaign aimed at reaching a younger audience. He smiles, and nods, and assures them that the place looks glamorous (it does), that his mother is terribly sorry she couldn’t make it herself (she kind of is, “beats Eastern Europe”), and that the food is great (the only thing he put in his mouth since he came in is red wine). Once he’s free to go, he stops a waiter with a tray of wine glasses, steals one, puts a fiver on a tray, and starts his way to one of those funny, tall tables meant to stand around them, which are useless, but also often installed in such venues so that the guests don’t muss up their expensive attires by sitting down. He picks one at the very back of the room, and attacks, making as little eye contact with strangers on his way there as socially acceptable. 

He doesn’t mind the crowds, really. Most of the time, he’s over the moon with every single person who expresses their interest in him, or, especially, in his mum. Tonight though, he doesn’t really feel very social - once June finished her speech he totally lost any interest in his surroundings, and ever since, he’s just slacking around, texting with Henry, unless he’s being interrupted. 

No reference to anything, absolutely not related, but he hasn’t really talked to Henry for the last week, one of them always either busy or unconscious when the other could make some time. Also, tomorrow marks three weeks since they last seen each other. So, not that it matters, really, but. It’s objectively been a while. He’s grinning as he texts back

  
  


**FSOTUS**: a very nice thing actually

**FSOTUS**: about powerful american women 

“Mr. Claremont-Diaz?” he hears next to him, and bites down a scream. 

“Mr. Claremont-Diaz is my father,” he says off-handedly, while hurryingly finishing the sentence, and when he looks up from his phone, his face is already fixed into his signature expression - polite interest with a hint of mischief. “Well, not exactly, I just really wanted to say that. _ Alex _ is fine.”

His newly acquired annoyance softens once he notices that the voice belongs to a girl, not older than 10, with a sparkly tiara on the top of her head, and big brown eyes watching him from underneath fake lashes.

“Is your mum here?” she asks shyly, promptly ignoring his engaging welcome, and Alex puts his phone down on the table.

“Sadly, she’s in Hungary,” he says. The girl pulls a face. “But we’ll be video calling her later,” he adds quickly, and, seeing it doesn’t really help, throws in: “My sister’s here, though.”

“I know,” the girl says, and her face brightens a little. “I heard her talk about brown girls.”

Alex’s smile grows wider, more honest. June’s speech was about the need to decolonize American press, highlighting the underrepresentation of women of colour in mainstream media platforms. 

“Oh, right!” he says. “Did you like it?”

“I liked her dress.”

Alex’s phone flashes. 

**HRH Prince Dickhead **💩: That does sound nice.

“It is rude to check your phone during a conversation.”

Alex drafts back from the screen. “I’m not doing that.”

“You are.”

“I just looked because it lit up.”

“That’s checking your phone.”

Alex tilts his head to the side, slightly impressed, and holds the girl’s gaze for a second.

“You’re absolutely right, and I’m sorry,” he admits, and then makes a show of looking around. He leans forward, shifting closer to her. She instinctively leans in, and in a conspiratory scene whisper, he says: “It’s the prince of England.”

The girl’s eyes light up again.

“Prince Henry?” she asks, in a very peculiar tone, as if half astonished, and half suspicious.

“Well, definitely not prince Philip,” Alex rolls his eyes theatrically. “He’s still mad at me for ruining his cake.”

The girl laughs a little, but quickly says, “I don’t believe you.”

“You don’t?” Alex asks, and the girl laughs again, and shakes her head. “Well,” he dramatically picks up his phone. “Let me get a proof then.”

He shifts around the table and turns the screen so that the girl can read his screen as he types.

**HRH Prince Dickhead **💩: And what are you doing at an event for powerful American women?

**FSOTUS**: henry 

**FSOTUS**: please send a picture of yourself

**HRH Prince Dickhead **💩: Oh

**HRH Prince Dickhead **💩: Aren’t you in a very public space?

“Oh, wait” Alex pulls the phone away as quickly as blood rushes to his face.

**FSOTUS**: nOT this kind of picture 

  
**FSOTUS**: but damn you’re easy 

**FSOTUS**: just one cute selfie so i can prove a friend that i know you 

**FSOTUS**: please?

**FSOTUS**: preferably with david 

The reply comes instantly.

**HRH Prince Dickhead **💩: I’m sorry, are you bragging about me?

Alex snorts, and shows the screen to the girl, with the keyboard open, so that she can only see the most recent messages. Her smile is so wide now it’s showing almost all of her teeth with their braces, and some of the gums as well. 

“Should we go first?” he asks, and she nods enthusiastically, so he quickly turns around and takes a selfie. It’s a good photo - Alex’s mustard suit and girl’s green velour dress, both of them brown-skinned, brown-eyed, with dark curls falling on their foreheads, both smiling widely (her a little too widely, the way kids always do when they know they’re being photographed).

**FSOTUS** : _ image _

**FSOTUS**: please send us a picture >:(

The girl cackles, the sound mixing with Alex’s notifications.

**HRH Prince Dickhead **💩: Oh, hello! 

**HRH Prince Dickhead ** 💩: _ image _

And there he is, looking like a straight-up angel, all perfect-porcelain skin and messy golden hair, wide smile that wrinkles his bright blue eyes in the corners. He’s wearing a sweater so white it almost looks photoshopped, and presses David to his cheek to fit him in the picture. Alex glances at his companion, and then back at the screen, feeling as if he just saw him with her eyes - a fairytale, an out-of-reach mirage, much more of an airbrushed teen magazine poster than a front camera quicky, as breathtaking as it seems unreal.

  
  
“He’s so pretty,” the girl says, and Alex swallows. 

“Yup, we’re not telling him that.”

Before Alex is forced to shake back to normal, the voice behind him calls “Lucia!”, and next moment, they’re joined by an elegant woman in a beige suit. She quickly turns out to be the girl’s - Lucia’s, clearly - mother, who “told her to wait by the muffins”, and “asked nearly anyone if they’ve seen a magical princess in green dress”. Lucia informs her that she was talking to the prince, and then Alex gets noticed and recognised, and they laugh for a minute, and take one more pic, now of the three of them together. The mother, Sara, apologizes, Alex assures her there’s nothing to apologise for, and wishes them a dashing event, and then they’re gone, Lucia still grinning wide. 

  
  


**FSOTUS: **predictably enough, she liked david more 

**HRH Prince Dickhead **💩: I never really stood a chance, did I?

**HRH Prince Dickhead **💩: Who was that, actually?

**FSOTUS:** lucia, a daughter of sara

**FSOTUS: **i think sara’s been on the planning committee

**FSOTUS: **not sure though, felt wrong to ask

**HRH Prince Dickhead **💩: A powerful American woman, I suppose?

**FSOTUS: **1000%

**FSOTUS: **!!!!!

**FSOTUS: **speaking of those 

**FSOTUS: **ive been researching for this thing and

**FSOTUS:** did you know eleanor roosevelt way gay????

  
  
**FSOTUS: ** i mean maybe not gay gay

  
  
**FSOTUS: ** but like, definitely not straight

  
  
**FSOTUS: ** there’s a record of love letters from her to some girl

  
  
Henry’s definitely not as impressed with this revolutionary piece of information as Alex would have imagined. 

  
  


**HRH Prince Dickhead ** 💩: American education system truly failed you, didn’t it?   
  


**FSOTUS: **oh you have no idea 

**FSOTUS: **not that id believe they taught you that at e*on

**FSOTUS: **but

**FSOTUS: ** im gonna send you something wait   
  


He recently found a really interesting article about it, written by some queer history scholar from Princeton. He saved it on his drive- or maybe he emailed it to himself? Either way, he has it _ somewhere _, and his searching his phone for it, when he’s being interrupted again. 

“Am I really seeing Alexander Claremont-Diaz at a party, standing _ alone _?”

This voice is much more familiar. Alex looks up, stricken, and recognises the face in an instant. 

“Oh my God, Trina Fitzgerald!” he exclaims, and in the next moment, her arms are around his neck, while his wrap around her waist and lift her up a little, both of them laughing like little kids. “How have you been?” Alex asks, putting her down. “How’s New York?”

“Insane, I love it there!” Trina says, trying to get loose strings of auburn hair out of her face, and they laugh again. “This city, Alex! There’s really nothing else like it.”

Trina passes him one of the wine glasses she brought, and goes on a comprehensive update. It’s been a long while since they last saw each other (“Democrats’ Christmas Party? No, hold up, Thanksgiving?”), and they don’t ever talk online, other than occasional brief comments under each other’s Instagram posts, and it always feels so good to catch up. Alex listens attentively to stories about Columbia’s options for political analysis and NYC charter of YDA, grinning so wide he feels his jaw muscles tense.

They go way back. Trina has been in the first edition of the White House programme of paid internships for underprivileged youth Claremont administration launched right after his mother took office. They soon realised they’re much alike - two sharp kids from the South, a whole lot confused with relocation to DC but determined to make the most of what they’ve been given. With her sunshine charm and no-nonsense attitude, she was the fastest friend he’s ever made, and although their friendship ended almost as fast once Trina left for college, the thought of her always felt like a calming yellow light.

When he’s briefed on all he needs to know about the life in the Big Apple, they move on to Washington. Alex moves a step to catch a wine waiter nearby and comes back with another two glasses, never breaking his stream of the freshest White House gossips he can think of. Trina throws her head back with laughter, and says it almost feels like that one time they got drunk together lying in the grass after some charity baseball match. Alex really can’t see the resemblance, but he’s actually having fun, so he nods enthusiastically. Only when Trina, apparently still vegan, spots a tray of hummus wraps passing nearby, and jumps a little to the left to get a few, Alex uses the moment to check his phone.

**HRH Prince Dickhead **💩: I am trembling with anticipation. 

Oh, right. 32 minutes ago. Alex frowns, and comes back to his abandoned search. The article shows up in the next location he checks, and he’s attaching it to Henry when Trina materialises by his side.  
  
“Prince _ Dickhead _?” she laughs, reading from the screen. “Don’t tell my your epic bromance is a sham.”

“Hey, you scared me,” he chuckles, and locks his phone instinctively, distantly wondering if they’ve been standing this close the entire time. “Absolute sham,” he clears his throat. “I’m infiltrating Buckingham to bring it down from within.”  
  
“Come on!” Trina screeches, and hits him in the arm playfully. “You’re gonna break his heart!”

“Henry’s? Oh, he’s in on the thing.”

“Oh, is he, now?” Trina’s smile turn mischievous as she moves closer to him. “Is that due to your famous charisma?"

“No one would take less convincing,” Alex says, half-consciously registering that Trina’s hand rests on his forearm now. “No one would see the crown fall more happily, trust me. The guy spent what must be years in fucking posture classes. _ Posture classes _ .” he’s seriously tipsy now, semi-aware that he’s rambling, but doesn’t really care. “Can you imagine, being six and spending Tuesdays just learning how to stand straight? Also, he’s not a fan of milit- Hold up. I probably shouldn’t be telling you that.”

  
Trina lifts her eyebrows conspiratiously. 

  
“Don’t worry. You can tell me anything.”

  
  
“Actually, I can’t,” Alex mumbles. “I signed an NDA.”

  
  
“An NDA?”

  
  
“Non-disclosure agreement. You know, about not disclosing stuff.”

  
“I know what an NDA is, silly,” Trina turns a bit so that her entire body is facing him, resting on her elbow on the table. “Alright, then. We wouldn’t want the Scotland Yard to escort you.”

  
  
“I don’t think they handle royal affairs.”

“I don’t really care,” she admits, tilting her head to her side.

  
  
“Yeah, me neither,” Alex says, and a brief pause follows. He takes half a step back, so that his arm is no longer brushing Trina’s. “I can show you a meme I made about him.”

“That... sounds fun.”

**HRH Prince Dickhead **💩: Alexander Claremont-Diaz, are you ghosting me?

**HRH Prince Dickhead ** 💩: _ image _

**HRH Prince Dickhead **💩: David is expectant.

**HRH Prince Dickhead **💩: I, too, might be.

“See?” Alex laughs to himself, and flashes the screen at Trina. “Who the fuck keeps perfect spelling in texts. I hate the guy.”

“Alex-”

  
  
“Meme, right. Let me just… Yeah. Yup. There we go.”

  
  
The meme is very entertaining, he thinks. It’s one of the best he’s made. It’s a screenshot of Henry’s annoyed morning snap with a caption: _ When you have to wake up at 5.30AM to plan the Highgarden take over. _Alex is very proud of it, and Trina laughs courteously, but stops when she notices a notification blinking at the top of the screen.

**HRH Prince Dickhead ** 💩: This thing you’re sending better be one of those cute pi...

  
  
“Ah-and. Yeah,” he says, very intelligently, snatching his phone away sharply. “You watched _ Game of Thrones _ , right?”   
  


“Sure I did! What did you think about finale?”

  
  
**HRH Prince Dickhead **💩: This thing you’re sending better be one of those cute pictures you take of yourself from a very unflattering angle of quality so ridiculously high that it takes milennia to deliver, or I’m going to be gravely offended by this lack of appreciation for royal attention you’re receiving.

“Sorry, what finale?” Alex looks up from his phone. His cheeks are burning. Must be the wine. “Ah, _ Game of Thrones _! Yeah, sure, I mean, it was shit. I only liked Sansa’s ending.”

“Right?!” Trina says enthusiastically. “I think they really compromised their political accuracy, you know what I mean? The settlement of the King’s Landing issue-”

  
  


**FSOTUS: **jesus christ u attention seekwr

  
  


“Totally. I mean, yeah,” he says, locking up his phone and putting it on the table. “Can you, can you elaborate?”

Trina happily explains, but the screen lights up again, and her words seem to fade into white noise.

  
  


**HRH Prince Dickhead **💩: I’m not seeking, I have been promised some.

**FSOTUS: **oh so your attention-deprived now huh

  
  
**HRH Prince Dickhead ** 💩: * You’re.   
  


“What’s so funny?” Trina asks. 

“What?” Alex says, showing off his conversationalist abilities. “Oh, that comment you made. About-”

“The parallels between Daenerys’ arc and historical revolutionaries?”

“Exactly!”

“Alex,” she gives him a cold stare, and he instantly knows he misfired. “I haven’t said a word about it yet.”

“Trina, I am _ so _sorry-”

“Hey, it’s fine!” Trina cuts him off quickly, and she squeezes his arm. “I mean, it’s been a year, everyone’s over it by now.”

“I mean that’s interesting,” Alex assures quickly, and actually means it. “I just, my mind has been elsewhere.”

“Yeah? Mine, too” Trina says, and the look on her face suddenly looks so familiar, Alex can almost hear what’s coming next before she says it. “Listen, if you don’t have any plans after this, I’m staying two streets away. We can take it there.”

Alex’s eyes mindlessly travel to where Trina’s fingertips have been travelling up and down his forearm for what must have been a while, as he braces for the upcoming awkwardness.

“Trina,” he starts, and she freezes, recognising the tone. “You know I’ve had so much fun with you, I’m just,” he runs a hand through his hair, and looks up, to find her watching him from under raised brows. He knows the expression, an attempt at hiding hurt with an interest, amusement. “I’m sort of, well, I can’t really say I’m seeing somebody right now. But, just- I don’t think we should go back there.”

Predictably, Trina reacts the same way he would - rushes to assure that it’s absolutely fine, apologises if that made him feel uneasy, laughs at “not being 18 anymore”. Alex helps her make the situation even more cliche, with an off-hand meaningless compliment, and they both laugh briefly. They try to come back to the conversation, but essentially fail, and Trina, Alex is sure, makes up a friends she’s seeing on the other side of the hall.

Alex takes a moment before he nods, and pulls her into a bear hug. She’s laughing again, and he reassures her that it’s been wonderful to bump into her, and promises to text tomorrow if she’s still in the city, as he has some three hours about lunch time and would love to hear more about her _ Game of Thrones _opinions, and anything else she wants to talk about. There’s one more hug, and then one more glass of wine in his hand, and then he’s free again, but not taking any chances this time. He looks around to make sure he’s not committing a faux pas, and the next minute, he’s walking to the back terrace.

It’s late, the terrace dark and empty, and the air feels cold as he dials Henry.

“And what’s that, hello?” says Henry’s voice, exaggeratedly surprised.

“You can’t correct my spelling if you don’t see it,” Alex says, leaning back against the wall.

“Oh, so you have something to say to me, after all?” he can hear Henry shift, with a small sound of what must be his bedsheets moving around him. He distantly wonders if Henry has had a few as well - he’s been very forward over the texts, not something Alex sees as often as he’d wish to, and now, he’s going for the playfully offended tone. And, he’s doing that from his bed. Alex feels something tighten in his chest. 

“Come on, that’s not fair,” he says, certain the idiotic smile on his face is audible on the other end. “I’m at work.”

“Ahh yes,” Henry answer, same over-the-top tone, dragging the vowels. “With lots of powerful American women, was it?”

“Aww, baby, is it jealousy I’m hearing?”

“Well. After being left on read for an hour, one cannot help but wonders.”

“You know swaying people’s quite literally my job, though,” Alex happily gives into this play, Henry acting disinterested, having him talk his way out of overreacted neglect. He knows Henry’s not really bothered, but finds the thing amusing - the two of them acting like an old couple, which is so funny mostly because it’s so far away from anything they are, anything they’ll ever be. “Not all of us have their subjects legally bound to like them.”

The chuckle Alex hears has him convinced that Henry just relaxed against the cushions. “How was your event, then?” asks the same, seemingly uninterested voice, but there’s a smile smiling undertone to it now.

“Good,” Alex says, determined to win this thing. “For a thing without English delegations, which I generally find super boring.”

“Oh, do you?” goes a quiet hum, which Alex’s stomach finds very amusing. “Since when?”

“The international is growing on me,” he shrugs, as if Henry could see it.

“Maybe you should focus on foreign policy, then.”

“There’s definitely a foreign thing I’d like to focus on.”

“Please try and refrain from using objectification as a means of seduction,” Henry says, and that makes Alex lose some of his thoroughly exercised patience. 

“Alright Oxford graduate, how’s that,” Alex leans away from the wall, and starts a walk forward. “I wholeheartedly wish you were here because I haven’t had my way with you in weeks and I’ve already had so many very vivid ideas about things I’d like to do to you I will have to make a list to keep track of them. Please come over.”

“Okay,” Henry says, his flat tone posed as if he were assessing the performance. Alex wants to scream. “Not bad. Quite convincing. Maybe if you told me more about the things in question I would consider it.”

“Well,” he manages through the new gulp in his throat, cursing the way his voice hitches a little, his own reactiveness, and the wine that must have caused it. “If you decided to get your ass up here, I would most probably kiss you.”

“Oh, would you really?”

“I think there is a pretty strong change that I would, yes.”

“How would you kiss me?” Henry asks, and Alex couldn’t explain how he can feel his temperature rising in a split second, but he can swear he does. 

“Uhm. Slowly, at first. You know, as in not to show how embarrassingly desperate I’ve been to do that.”

“Yes, please, carry on.” A low hum of approval. Alex’s skin feels hot.” Where are your hands in this hypothetical scenario?”

“One on the back of your neck,” he says slowly. “The other on your waist, to pull you close.”

“Chaste,” comes a brief feedback, quickly followed by Alex’s snor. 

“Well, we’re in a public space, Your Highness.”

There’s a bit of silence, and when Henry speaks again, his voice is gravely serious. “Where are you?”

“Some terrace on the back,” Alex answers, confused.

“Wait, are you still at this event?”

“I mean I’m outside, but-”

“And you’re trying to sexphone me?” Henry says, a bit too loud, and then tunes his voice into an angry whisper. “Come on, Alex, have you not-”

“Hey, you’re the one who asked for details!” Alex says, also too loud. 

“Yes, because I thought you’re alone!”

“I am alone!”  
  


“Alex!” Henry screeches desperately. 

“Okay!” Alex throws his free hand in the air in an unnoticeable act of surrender. “Okay I get it! Should I hang up?”

“No!” Henry answers immediately, and Alex grins. “That is, Jesus Christ. Did anyone hear you?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

A sigh, which makes Alex certain Henry is massaging his temple. “Thank God, then.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, deep breaths, calming down. “Yeah, so. Now what?”

“Look,” Henry says carefully. “Is this event a long thing?”

“It’s almost over.”

“So you should be in your hotel room about…”

“An hour, at most?” Alex glances back at the ballroom. “What time is it there?”

“One thirty.”

“Do you need to-”

“No.”

Alex stomach reacts with a tingle before his head pierces data together. “Okay. Alright, then. I,” he tries, smiling wide once again. “I’ll call you once I’m there?”

“Please do.”

“Alright,” he says again, and turns to walk back in for the final speeches of the evening. “Then go fix your hair for me, please.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright i know i said it'll be up some three days ago but then i didn't know i'll spend the weekend fleeing the country (thanks, health scare!!!!!) so. yeah. 
> 
> anyway, this one is back!! i'm so annoyed at myself that i just let it hang for half a year but you know, life happens. i'm not promising anything here but i'm self-isolating for the next 13 days and i have a very strong resolution to write at least 500 words per day so hopefully some of those will be here!! 
> 
> if you stuck around, thank you s o much, and if you're new here, hello there!! hope you'll stick around!! please leave a comment if you feel like it, i know i don't let it show but i really truly deeply appreaciate them, and remember to take care of yourself in this pure insanity happening now x


	5. May 9th, 2020. Berlin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry’s face is flushed and pink, just one wrinkle between his eyebrows that Alex tries very hard not to kiss. “Yes?” he breathes, still tense, but smiling shyly.
> 
> “Yeah,” Alex chuckles, finding he’s also breathless, getting very excited at the premise. They both let out small laughs. “Anything, baby,” he adds, which gets him such a soft smile from Henry that he can’t stop himself from punctuating is with a small peck on the corner of his mouth. “I just, didn’t know you’re into these things.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me writing: yes but would an american say that

A list of things that are true, semi-continuously drafted by Alex in that split second when Shaan takes a turn, and he almost falls from Henry’s lap, but is being swiftly put back in place by two muscular arms:   
  


  1. He’s being very passionately kissed by the prince of England.
  2. He’s wearing an Armani suit.
  3. He’s sitting at the back of a limousine.
  4. They’re driving through some of the oldest streets known to Western civilisation.
  5. They’re on their way to a five star hotel.
  6. Where, for the first time in weeks, they’re going to have mind blowing sex.

He doesn’t really focus on any of the latter points, his mind feverishly looping on one, one,  _ one _ , but there is a flash of a thought saying: so this is life now, huh?

Ten years ago at the exact same time, one brown boy somewhere in Texas is probably making scrambled eggs for himself and his sister, the two of them home alone for the evening, their dad in California, and their mother working late. Were Alex’s thoughts not absolutely preocuppied, he’d wonder how would the boy react to the news that one day he’ll be America’s sweetheart, voyaging through Europe. 

Another flash of a thought tells him he should be thinking about Europe a bit more than he does. He can imagine Berlin is just one more postcardy place for Henry, who spent his whole life in a literal palace, but he himself has never stepped a foot further than Mexico before his mother’s presidency. It’s all still so new to him - narrow streets, ancient architecture, elegant strangers speaking incoherable languages. Nonetheless, he could be passing the Bundestag itself, and in that minute, he wouldn’t have a single glance to spare, his attention entirely consumed by a hint of bare skin on Henry’s neck where he just loosened up the tie and worked through the first button. He kisses the spot, reveling in the way Henry’s breath catches, feeling his fingertips run up and down his spine. He’s on a third button when Henry stops him, tight grip on his waist, and mutters “Hold up,” and when Alex whines a little, as he must admit he does, chases it down with a breathless “Later,” and pulls Alex’s face up to kiss him again. 

Alex whimpers again, because it’s been too long, and he doesn’t really have patience to hold anything back.  _ It’s been too long _ might be the only sentence his mind offered him all evening, from the moment he hurriedly clasped hands with Henry at the very start of the gala, before they were separated by the sitting arrangements, to the blissful bit after they were both done mingling with the whole checklists of important people they both’d needed to talk to tonight, when Henry came up to Alex’s little circle of loose acquaintances, flashed him a perfect press smile, and said: “You’re staying at the Ritz-Carlton as well, aren’t you? Shall we carpool, then?”

Oh, by the way, today marks the first time Alex got to witness Henry’s press persona after they relationship switched to whatever it is now, and he still hates it. Not because he fools himself to believe it’s dull and overrated, he’s light years past that stage, but because of how absolutely impersonal and unwavering it is. Every time Henry gives it to him in public, this automatic copy-paste twist of his mouth, the absolutely polite wording, the soothing, kind tone of voice that everyone else in the room gets, Alex wants to scream, because how  _ dares _ Henry call him at 3am, and send him snapshots of his morning face, and kiss his neck, and tights, and nose. and shoulders, and then exhibit a total of zero change in his approach, shoving it all down so deep that if one was to watch them from afar, they’d never tell there’s ever been anything other than strictly platonic friendship between them? That’s the point of this arrangement they have, obviously, Alex knows this, he finds it kind of impressive that Henry can keep it up so well, but it drives him fucking mad, this well-behaved cardboard cutout that is so far away from what Henry is with him. And it’s been too long since they last were with each other, but it’s also been way too long since Alex first saw Henry tonight for him to still be so fucking in check.

And then Henry moves his mouth to this soft spot up Alex’s jaw, right under the ear, and bites down, and okay, maybe Alex will let him keep his composure for a tiny bit more. 

They attempt at the Sisyphean task of putting themselves back together before they leave the limo, so the press that is one hundred percent waiting for them can’t draw any certain conclusion about whether they have or have not made out in the vehicle. The moment they’re out of the car, Henry’s media persona is back, and Jesus Christ, Alex truly loathes it with burning passion, the way Henry now keeps half a meter distance from him, and gives him cordial but half-interested smiles, and small talks every single employee they come in contact with, making their trip to the fourteenth floor much longer than it really needed to be.

The last thing is also annoyingly attractive, as Alex has recently discovered that having met so many assholes in his life, he developed an embarrassing thing for big fucking rich white men who are taking their time to be kind and charming to the people they really don’t have to be charming to. He’s not proud of applauding basic human decency but somehow, it always works, and everything that worked before seems to be working twice as much with Henry.

Which does nothing to make him any less impatient to get Henry alone, or any less annoyed at him for being perfectly aware of what he’s doing. 

“Care to come in for a drink?” Alex asks casually, somehow biting down every of the very many things he’s going through right now, once they’re in the wing they’re both staying at.

“Well,” Henry makes a show of looking at his watch, and it’s infuriating, because there is literally no one else in the hall with them, and there is absolutely zero need for all of this, and it’s really,  _ really _ been too long. It takes all restrain Alex has in him not to grab Henry’s stupid boring fucking tie and drag him into the room before he finally says: “I suppose one wouldn’t hurt, would it?”

As soon as Henry closes the door behind them, Alex gets a grip on the tie and tugs, bringing Henry’s stupid face inches to his own.

“You fucking asshole,” he says, and starts to walk back, tugging Henry with him. 

“Somehow it’s both the least and the most predictable thing to hear from you once I finally have you alone,” Henry says, his smile finally cracking wide, and something spreads in Alex’s chest. He’s following promptly, reaching behind himself to drop his suit jacket to the floor.

“You sure took your time to get me here,” Alex answers as his knees hit the back of the bed. He considers, and then sits down, hand still around Henry’s tie.

“Oh,” Henry says in response to the sharp movement, pulled down into straddling Alex’s lap, and then adds, “Well, if I knew you were this impatient…” as if he was any better, so Alex just murmurs “Mhm, shut up,” and crushes their mouths together, and oh  _ God _ , it’s been  _ too long.  _ Henry keeps one of his hand on Alex’s hip, while the other runs through Alex’s hair, and then through the lines of his jaw, and over his neck. They’re moving together, slow but intense, short hard kisses, and teeths pulling, and desperate gasps for breath. After a while Alex moves one of his arms behind them and eases himself down on the mattress, never breaking the kiss, still keeping Henry right to his face by the goddamn tie. It’s only when Henry’s flat against him that he lets go, clenching to the back of his neck instead. Henry fixes himself on top of him, and moves to bite at the same spot that he aimed for in the car, as if he really wanted to leave a mark there, while his hands work on Alex’s button up, and Alex is. Feeling so breathless. He might be dying. 

So, as in not to give Henry the satisfaction of being the more put together of them two, he’s gathering all the strength he’s got and flips them around, and picks up the pace, and that somehow works as well. He struggles to open Henry’s belt with his left hand, when Henry, hair wild, tie loose and shirt open, tugs at his hair to move him away, and examines him.

Alex knows the look - narrowed eyes and furrowed brow, both contented and wanting, uncertain and determined - and grins with anticipation. 

“Can I, hm,” Henry says from the mattress, a low hum, barely louder than a whisper. “Can I have a… request?”

And there it is, the tingling in Alex’s stomach, the unmistakable twitch in his pants, which are, unfortunately, still in place. “Absolutely.”

“I want you to tie me down?”

Alex’s brain shuts down. Whatever his face comes to look like, it sends a wrong message 

“Alright, please forget I mentioned that, we don’t-” Henry starts anxiously, and Alex is too lost for words to cut him off with anything of substance, so he kisses him quickly. Henry resumes the second he gets a breath, a “No, really, we don’t have to if you won’t feel comf-” and with that, Alex’s lips are on his again, even more pressing and insistent than before. He bites into Henry’s lower lip, and is rewarded with a low, grunting sound, a hand tightening in his curls. He laughs a little into Henry’s mouth before he’s being pulled away again.

Henry’s face is flushed and pink, just one wrinkle between his eyebrows that Alex tries very hard not to kiss. “Yes?” he breathes, still tense, but smiling shyly.

“Yeah,” Alex chuckles, finding he’s also breathless, getting very excited at the premise. They both let out small laughs. “Anything, baby,” he adds, which gets him such a soft smile from Henry that he can’t stop himself from punctuating is with a small peck on the corner of his mouth. “I just, didn’t know you’re into these things.”

“I wasn’t, to be perfectly honest with you,” Alex feels Henry’s fingertips mindlessly trace his bare shoulder, watches Henry’s eyes as they drift somewhere ahead in consideration, blink twice, and come back to his. “Into tying, maybe,” he says, unexpectedly, and Alex very firmly  _ notes it _ .” “But not exactly into being… on the receiving end of it,” he bats his eyes, either in earnest bashfulness, or deliberate flirtation, which is either way fascinating to watch. “But with you, I want to try.”

“Cool,” Alex says, and he knows it’s a response unproportionate to the grin that’s ripping his face, but he can barely form as much. Henry smiles too, all hints of former anxiety melting into Alex’s lips once he’s pulled close again, and they make their way up the bed, so that Henry’s wrists can reach the frame. 

And for someone who’s tried, but never thought of himself as been into these things, Alex is embarrassingly into it, and for someone who prefers the other end of it, Henry’s very much into it, too. They balance somewhere between talking it through, and just going with whatever feels right in the moment, and Henry offers his tie for the task, and Alex mocks him for being a kinky European, and in return gets mocked for his inability to form a proper knot (“Where’s the American boy scout energy?” “Miss me with that white people shit.”). There’s lots of kissing, and lots of quiet reassurance, which Alex finds much more arousing than he would like to admit, and quite a long pause once Henry’s pants are off, because Alex is a little bit tipsy and sort of wanted to just stare for little, and then his mouth is all over Henry, coaxing little those sighs out of him. 

Not for the first time, Alex distantly wonders how did he ever manage to convince himself that he was  _ not  _ attracted to Henry. Henry’s, objectively, a flawless presence, even more so now that he’s panting beneath Alex, shamelessly reactive to touch, blushing and laughing breathlessly when teased about it. Right before he finishes, he jerks forward so hard the tie lets loose and his hands fall free, the sudden change of their balance point knocking them both off rhythm, and Henry laughs, a full-on, unguarded sound that somehow always seems to strike right through Alex, into some place soft and undiscovered. Alex watches him from between his legs, sees him looking up to the bed frame as if he planned to asses how to get the knot fixed back up, but gets momentarily distracted, and, as if by instinct, slips his newly freed hands into Alex's hair. They make eye contact, and Henry huffs something that sounds like “oh well” or “oh hell” or maybe is just meant to be an “oh”, that either way gets drowned in his pants and titters, and Alex chuckles on him as well, the vibration of it making Henry tremble as they laugh him through the edge.

It takes so little for Alex to join him there he probably should be embarrassed, but absolutely isn’t, and soon they’re both boneless, the last scrapes of vital forces used to snuggle, Alex’s head on Henry’s weaving chest, Henry’s arm loosely around him.

Alex closes his eyes, and lets himself stay like this, enveloped in Henry's warmth. Half-conciously, he discovers he finds so much comfort in these moments - the skin of Henry's chest slick under his midlessly travelling fingers, the slow rise and fall of Henry's chest keeping him grounded, the air Henry breathes out flitting through his hair, his brain finally quiet. He allows himself to enjoy it, to let out a satisfied hum, to turn his head slightly and plant a kiss on Henry's chest. He can feel Henry's heart skip a bit at that, and can't help a sheepish smile, but the, Henry speaks up.

“Should I go?”

“What?” Alex angles his head up rapidly to get a clear look at Henry’s face. “Where?”

“You know, back to my place.” Henry looks right back at him, tilting his head down so much he gets a few more chins. It’s adorable. 

“What?” Alex repeats, very eloquently. “Why would you do that?”

“I don’t know I just, hm,” Henry stares into his eyes for a bit, his thinking face on, considering. “Every time I’m trying to remember I should go, but every time it escapes me. Now, I remember, I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

Alex offers him what he hopes to be an enchantingly mischievous smirk, and stretches along the side of him, the inside of his tight grazing Henry’s leg. “As you can see, I am very comfortable.”

“Yes, well,” Henry smiles softly, runs his fingers down Alex's arm, but looks unconvinced. “So am I, for the record. But isn’t that, you know. Making things complicated.”

Ah, so  _ that’s  _ what it’s about.  _ It’s not _ , Alex wants to retort immediately, but holds the thought, because, to be fair, technically speaking, it probably is, especially judging from the sharp objection his body raises at the thought of Henry leaving his bed now. Alex reaches up to get a hold of Henry’s chin to keep his stare locked on his.

“Hey, here’s what we’ll do,” he says, before giving it enough thought to make a sober assessment, partly because he has reasons to think that he wouldn’t like the sober assessment one bit. “If you ever cross the line, I’ll tell you, alright? Like, in a gentle and non-judgemental but very obvious way.”

“Okay.”

“And, if  _ I  _ ever cross the line, I want you to do the same.”

“I don’t recall you being in line once since I’ve met you,” Henry says to that, his uncertain smile growing into a teeth-baring grin, and whatever felt wrong into Alex’s insides a second ago now slots back into place. He playfully slaps Henry on the chest where his hand has been resting, and Henry laughs again, and Alex knows that being cuddled to him shouldn’t feel this good, but fuck if he cares. 

“If I go too far, though?” he asks after receiving a few more kisses on his mouth. 

“Of course. With so much pleasure,” Henry says, and he winks at him, and they’re kissing again, lazy and messy.

Well, screw it, then.  _ Baby  _ it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i felt so torn up about writing berlin because i'm /certain/ that's a milestone but writing m/m smut while definitely not being male myself is something i felt very very itchy with so i'm compromising with what i hope is a respectful curtain?? idk hope that works
> 
> anyway, can't believe i have just one chapter to go!! honestly i wish writing my own characters felt half as easy as writing these two i think i might just love them forever you know 
> 
> per ususal thank you so much for reading and the super kind feedback you're leaving, and hey, it's been a month of qurantine already and that must mean we can go through another right???? right?????

**Author's Note:**

> sO this is the first thing i wrote for the fandom (and the first fanfic i wrote in yearS, if you will) so please be nice. it's been moths since i read rwrb and i have yet to get these two out of my head


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